The broom is cold.
Despite the glitter of the glowing invitation,
I see no promise.
Deception is the rhythm of its song.
I see my open bedroom window beckoning.
The imaginary wind echoes hollow.
Despite the the heights of flight, the power to walk through a wall, the invisibility in a room.
I could not fathom insanity within its lie.
To be a "god."
A witch without a compass to bring me a home.
About the Creator
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The Voyeur's Incandescent Reasoning
The woman sat nonplussed, in the Waiting Room. In a sort of daze, looking straight ahead patiently. She had already had three small breakfast's that morning and a nip of sherry, this was not unusual she would typically wait until an hour after she took her anti-depressant and was her morning routine. She was merely following instructions she assured herself, shifted slightly in her seat and feeling a little heart burn thought, maybe she should skip lunch. Dom had said to have the task done this week. She was well used to his methods and desired to get this over and done with soon. She glanced at her watch, smiled weakly at the Receptionist who was there for a moment and then gone.
By Canuck Scriber L.Lachapelle Author6 days ago in Fiction
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